The Treason of Desire
by Kyrie74
Summary: On the night of the Opera Gala, a curious Meg Giry seeks Christine beyond the mirror, only to discover the truth about her dear friend's Angel.
1. A Passage of Shadows

_Don't worry...I haven't abandoned "Innocence & Passion." But I'm working off a different computer these days...I'll update that story as soon as I switch back._

_This idea has been a wandering child in the back of my mind for a bit. It's 98 based off the ALW musical/film, but there'll be some of the usual Leroux and, maybe, Kay, tidbits tossed in here and there...just because._

_Usual disclaimers...I don't own the characters (except for a few minor ones I've added in), but I'm sure you knew that._

_Reviews are welcome, as always._

* * *

Chapter One - A Passage of Shadows

Meg Giry took a single deep breath and let it out.

The great mirror was open, a passage of shadows lay beyond it.

Had Christine gone this way? Alone? With someone?

Meg shook her head; she could not imagine her sweet, timid friend venturing into such a narrow, dark place. Not even in the company of someone well liked, well trusted.

Only a quarter of an hour earlier, Meg had encountered the Vicomte de Chagny on the stairs near the singers' dressing rooms. Christine's childhood sweetheart had walked passed Meg, a look of puzzled anger on his handsome face.

He'd passed Meg without noticing, but stopped when he saw her Maman on the landing below.

"Madame Giry, you must tell me…where has Christine gone? She meant to go to dinner with me, but when I returned for her, she had locked me out of her dressing room."

The ballet mistress regarded the Vicomte calmly, shrugging back her braid as she answered him.

"Monsieur, it has been many years since you last saw Mademoiselle Daae. Perhaps she is no longer the little girl you knew."

Her poised reticence was not reassuring to the young Vicomte.

"Madame, I heard a voice in her room, a man's voice."

"And what if you did, Monsieur? It is not for you to worry about. She may choose the company she keeps."

Meg stepped into the passage, hearing the shush of her slippers on the dusty floor.

_Maman_, she thought, _will have my head if I ruin another pair of slippers_.

She kept to the center of the corridor, wondering how long it was…were there other tunnels opening off it…would she find her way back?

She heard a sound behind her; someone else had come through the mirror, too.

Moving closer to the wall, she felt for and found a opening, an deep niche of some sort. She retreated into it, holding still as she recognized the crisp footsteps.

It was Maman.

As she pressed back against the cold stone, Meg felt the thick, soft drape of cobwebs against her clothes, her hair, her skin.

_What is Maman doing here…did she follow me? Or does she know this place?_

Shrinking deeper into the alcove, Meg saw her mother pass, a small lamp shielded by her hand.  
Then, seemingly satisfied that the passage was empty, Madame Giry turned and left.

Meg heard the mirror slid shut. She emerged from her hiding place and shivered a little as she tried to sweep the cobwebs from her clothes and body.

The passage turned and Meg stumbled, finding stairs that descended deeper into the silence.

_I should go back…mon Dieu, who knows what might be down there?_

One hand skimming the stone wall, she went on until she found herself standing on the edge of the underground lake.


	2. A Scrap of Lace and A Golden Cross

Chapter Two - A Scrap of Lace and a Golden Cross

* * *

_So it is real…the lake is real!_

For much of her life, Meg had heard people…older people who had been with the Opera Populaire for many years…speak of the existence of a lake beneath the theatre. No one knew exactly where it was and many dismissed it as just another story.

The Opera was full of such tales…after all, it had its own Phantom, too.

The Opera Ghost…

Meg had seen the Opera Ghost once. Many of the ballet tarts claimed to have seen the specter. Most were lying, spinning lurid tales in the darkness of the dormitories to impress each other.

But Meg had seen him…

* * *

One day, after a rehearsal, she realized that the little gold cross she always wore had fallen off its chain. She hurried back to the stage alone, hoping to find her late father's last gift to her.

The auditorium was empty, random pieces of scenery for the next production lay here and there on the stage.

Meg stumble over a prop that had been left lying about, a gaudy gilt sword leaning against a painted urn.

And she heard a low chuckle in the blackness of the flies above her. And the swoosh of heavy fabric as someone moved in that darkness.

Peering up, she saw a face…a stark white profile that burned in the shadows between the catwalks and ropes.

Forgetting the cross, she fled to the crowded, noisy safety of the ballet dressing room.

That night, she found an envelope beneath her pillow. Her name was written on it in a bold, almost aggressive hand…

**Mademoiselle Giry **

Inside was her cross.

* * *

A single torch mounted in a iron bracket on the wall illuminated the still green water. Someone had passed this way, Meg was certain.

Cautiously, she made her way to the edge of the lake. At the far edge, another passage.

A moth-like flutter of something white caught her eye. Meg bent down and picked up a tiny scrap of lace.

Meg recognized the lace. It was from Christine's dressing gown.

There must have been a boat…a way across.

Meg followed the stone landing until she found a low, narrow ledge that ran along the lake.

Someone small could just manage to balance between the water and the walls.

Carefully, Meg stepped up on the ledge, holding her skirts close and suddenly aware of the familiar pain in her feet.

Pressing back against the stone walls, she felt the bag of her dress and her hair growing damp.

_Don't fall, Meg…you don't know how deep that water is…and you don't know how to swim very well…you'll drown_.

The ledge continued into the passage at the far side of the lake. It was much wider now and Meg no longer had to slide along the wall.

At the far end, she saw pricks of light beyond some sort of massive grating.

_Candles?_

The ledge ended, but here she could see that the water was shallow. She sat down on the ledge and removed her slippers. Tying the ribbons together, she hung them from her neck.

Gathering her skirt above her knees, she waded towards the grate.


	3. The Harsh White Profile

Chapter Three - The Harsh White Profile

Then she heard a voice beyond the grating, beyond the candlelight.

The voice of a man…

She could feel curiosity behind her, pushing her onward as if hands had been laid against her back. She could feel herself drawn forward, too, lured onward towards the iron gate by that compelling voice as irresistibly as if someone were pulling at her arms.

Peering through the bars, she saw a grotto filled with light. And, in the midst of that trembling radiance, she saw him.

He was handsome, no…not handsome. Raoul de Chagny was handsome. This man was beautiful.

His hair was dark, his features strong, his movements quiet and powerful, his voice…

Then he turned and she saw the half-mask…the harsh white profile she had seen in the darkness above the stage.

The Opera Ghost…the Phantom of the Opera…he was real…he was a man.

He descended the stone steps within the strange room and held out his black-gloved hands.

Not to Meg. Surely he couldn't see her there, hidden at a corner of the portcullis.

He held them out to Christine.

**Slowly, gently, night unfurls it splendor…grasp it sense it, tremulous and tender.**

Meg found herself letting go of her skirt, letting its hem fall into the water as she reached out to grasp the cold bars of the gate.

Her friend's eyes were bright and wide, but they slowly closed as the man's hands skimmed gently over her waist.

**Floating, falling, sweet intoxication…touch me, trust me.**

Meg's own hands tightened around the iron as she stood alone, knee-deep in the pale green water. She could feel the man's voice with all of its passion and tenderness.

She could feel it within her own blood like the stolen brandy she and some of the other ballet girls once sampled in a dark corner of the wardrobe room.

She watched Christine, suddenly jealous of her for the first time since they had met as children.

Then she realized that Christine's sweet hypnotic state was her response to the music. Her own response was to the man.

_But how can she resist…I can't and those words aren't even meant for me._

She knew she was trembling violently and, releasing her hold on the gate, leaned back against the stone arch. She could still see them clearly. For a moment, though, the man's dark form obscured Christine from view.

When he turned, Christine was in his arms and he carried her to the bed.


	4. A Delicate Veil

Chapter Four - A Delicate Veil

As Meg watched, the Opera Ghost gently cradled Christine in arms before settling her limp form onto the crimson velvet.

She knew instinctively that Christine was all right, that she had merely fainted. But why?

As the Phantom's hand lightly trailed along Christine's pale cheek, Meg found herself mimicking his actions. Her own hand slid along her cheek and neck, stopping only at the edge of her tight linen bodice.

The man back away from the bed slowly. Even as Meg couldn't bear to take her eyes from him, it seemed as if he could not tear his own gaze away from Christine.

_You alone can make my song take…help me make the music of the night._

_You alone…_

He lowered a curtain, a delicate veil between himself and the bed.

Meg leaned against the bars again, hoping that she was not noticed.

As he walked away from the odd little bed chamber, he shrugged off his black dress jacket, the heavy brocaded vest, and silk cravat. He let them fall carelessly onto a worn divan. He removed his gloves and tossed them onto a table cluttered with papers, with masks.

_I should go…it is so very late…if Maman or Madame Breault finds I am not in the dormitory, I shall regret it…_

She made not attempt to leave, only stayed and watch as he unbutton the collar of his white shirt before sitting down at the pipe organ.

She wondered if he would remove the mask. He made no move to touch it, only bent forward to briefly examine a musical score.

She watched as he laid his hands on the keys as tenderly as he touched Christine.

The music he played was so low, so gently that Meg could barely hear it over the faint lap of the water. So muted that it did not awaken Christine.

After a few minutes he paused and ran his long fingers through his hair. It was a simple enough gesture, yet even at a distance, Meg could feel the frustration in that act.

He turned from the organ, reaching for a velvet robe that lay across a chair nearby.

For a moment, it seemed that his gaze reached the portcullis where she stood, hardly daring to breath.

In those brief seconds, it seemed as if no one else existed. There was no Christine in a strangely carved bed, no sleeping Opera company above.

Only a ballet girl in a sodden dress and a ghost in a white mask, a man whose eyes strayed to close to her hiding place.

He looked away, settling the velvet robe over his shoulder and caressing the ivory keys again.

Meg turned and backed away, hurrying up onto the ledge.

Despite the pain her feet, she did not rest until she crept into the ballet dormitory.


	5. She Found Herself Wishing

Chapter Five - She Found Herself Wishing

Meg crept into the shadowy dormitory. She picked her way between the rows of sleeping dancers until she banged her shin against the leg of her own bed beneath the window.

She began to quickly unbutton her dress, realizing that her hands still shook. She knew the dance frock must be a disgraceful mess, all soaked with water, covered with dust and cobwebs. She tucked it into the corner hamper, taking care to push it under the other girls' clothes.

She quickly pulled out her cotton nightdress and did her best to brush out her hair before sinking wearily onto her bed.

Staring up at the circle of pale gray light formed by the window, she found herself unable to sleep.

She twisted in her bed, tangling the sheets around her. Her tired body was so tense with hunger…for this phantom…this angel…this man.

She closed her eyes, letting her hand slip beneath her nightgown.

_Who are you…who are you..._

As her fingers moved lower and lower along her body, she found herself wishing they were his…remembering how he had caressed Christine, how he seemed to make love to the ivory keys.

She thought of Monsieur Lefevre, the first man she had known.

He was known to have an eye for the prettiest girls in the corps de ballet. It was no surprise that Little Meg with her honey-gold hair and bright eyes had caught his attention when she turned sixteen.

He did not force her or use his position as owner of the Opera Populaire. He made no threats to her mother's employment nor did he promise Meg any advancement.

He simply made it clear that he expected her to be his lover and there had been no way to refuse.

Her Maman knew and said nothing. Such was life in the Opera house.

The affair…if it could really be called a proper affair lasted for just over a year. In that time, she slowly learned to respond to him, though she suspected he was not a good lover.

Six months has passed since that final tryst in his office.

But it was not Monsieur Lefevre's face she envisioned now as her body arched with frustrated hunger.

She sunk her teeth into her lower lip until she tasted blood as she tried to keep herself from crying out. But, even then, she could not keep from moaning softly.

"Meg," a voice whispered from the nearest bed, "are you all right?"

"Yes, Isabelle…it's just cramps…" she forced herself to reply.


	6. A Bit of Gossip

Chapter Six - A Bit of Gossip

During practice the next morning, Meg forced herself to forget…for a few hours, at least…the night's strange drama beneath the Opera.

She went through the exercises with the other dancers, the strenuous rehearsals forcing away the memory and the desire.

"Meg! The ribbon of your slipper is untied," she heard her mother say in the quiet, imperious tone she used with all the dancers, "fix it at once."

Meg immediately stepped away from the line of girls and bent to retie her slipper. She found, however, that the ribbon had torn and was about to pull away from the shoe completely.

She made her excuses and hurried out to the wardrobe rooms to find a spare pair. Her other pair, the ones she had worn the night before, was ruined beyond use.

Having donned a new pair of slippers, she rose from the wooden bench and, smoothing her frock and hair, turned to go…

And came face to face with Joseph Bouquet.

"Well, well, Meg Giry," he said, lounging against the door frame, "why aren't you in rehearsals, girl? Does your worthy mother know you're here?"

"Yes, Joseph. She does."

"Oh, I'm sure of it, girl. Just like she knew about Lefevre," he said, with a wink, "I've a bit of gossip for you little tarts."

"I'm in a hurry, Joseph."

He shifted sideways to lean against the other side of the door frame, leaving only half the entrance free.

"It's about your little friend, Mademoiselle Daae."

Meg was considering how she could get past the leering scene-shifting when she heard him say Christine's name.

"Ah, that got your attention, Meg! I know where she was last night."

Meg hesitated before answering; could Joseph Buquet really know? Did he know that the young soprano had spent the night in that candlelit grotto beneath the Opera cellars? Did he know the truth about the Phantom?

"I thought she spent the evening with the patron, the Vicomte de Chagny."

Joseph laughed, a dirty and insinuating chuckle.

"She was in the company of a de Chagny, all right, Meg. But it sure as hell wasn't that pretty boy Vicomte."

He leaned forward, gave Meg a conspiratorial grin.

"She was with the Comte de Chagny, that Philippe fellow that La Sorelli jilted last season."

"Philippe? Don't be ridiculous! He hasn't even set foot in Opera since La Sorelli married that Florentine banker."

"You think so, Mam'zelle Giry? Well, last night…I was up in the hall that leads from the dormitory to the roof and…who do you think I saw coming across the leads?"

Meg folded her arms across her chest, a defensive habit she'd acquired around certain men like Buquet. She knew all too well that Christine had not been with either of the de Chagny brothers.

"I saw Christine Daae and, I must say, the girl looked liked she'd been burning the midnight oil. Ha, that's a sure thing. And there was a man with her."

He leaned just a bit closer and Meg took a step back, smelling the onions and cheap brandy on his breath.

"He was tall fellow, with a rich-looking cloak draped around himself and Mademoiselle Daae," he continued with mock drama in his voice, "I will say I didn't get a look at his face. He had a black fedora pulled down over it. But I'll bet you a new ribbon, Meg Giry, that it was the Comte de Chagny."

"No bet, Joseph. Please, I need to get back to rehearsals."

As she ducked past him and scurried out of the wardrobe robe, he gave her a slap on her backside. She turned on his furiously.

"If you touch me again, Joseph Buquet, I will scream."

"And, damn it, girl, you can out-scream La Carlotta."


	7. Their First Betrayal

Chapter Seven - Their First Betrayal

When rehearsals ended and the young women of the corps de ballet hurried off to coffee and fresh croissants from the theatre's commissary, Meg went to find Christine.

When she didn't see her friend in the dormitory or the dressing room, she knew of only one other place to look.

She found Christine in the chapel, sitting alone by the stained glass window. She was still dressed in the frothy white dressing gown of the previous evening. Her hair was wildly disheveled, her feet were bare on the cool stone floor.

She looked up when Meg called her named.

She was pale and Meg could see the salty residue of tears marking her pretty face.

She hurried over to Christine and sat down next to her. Mercy, what could have happened to her…what took place in that strange grotto on the underground lake…

She knew…instinctively and surely…that Opera Ghost had not harmed Christine.

She had seen the passion and frustration in him. In his voice, in his every gesture.

It had been so clear and strong, even from her vantage point, trespassing behind the portcullis.

But she had also seen the almost religious reverence with which he treated her…whoever he was, he was not capable of hurting her.

"Christine," she said as she gently put her arm around Christine's shoulders, "are you all right?"

Christine said nothing, only idly smoothed the lacey sleeve of her dressing gown.

"Christine, please…are you all right? I was worried about you…"

"I'm fine, Meg. Only…only the Gala…it was too much for me. I was too excited, I couldn't sleep. So I came down to the chapel and stayed here all night."

Meg felt heartbroken at her friend's lack of trust. They had been friends since they were children, little ballet rats together. This was the first time Christine had ever lied to her.

But she couldn't tell Christine the truth now, either. She couldn't confess to her what she had seen and heard…that she had followed her, that she had witnessed.

It was their first betrayal.

She stood up and took Christine's hand. Pulling her friend to her feet, she led her to the door.

"You should rest then. Come, we'll got find Maman."

They met Madame Giry in the narrow stone passage that led from the chapel.

"Meg, go upstairs at once and wait for me in the foyer."

As her mother took Christine's arm and led her away, Meg caught a glimpse of a black-edge envelope tucked in her mother's bodice.


	8. Into The Darkness Again

Chapter Eight - Into The Darkness Again

Meg tried not to laugh aloud as La Carlotta tore through the foyer, Ubaldo Piangi and her usual smug entourage close at her heels.

Messieurs Firman and Andre hurried to keep pace with her, groveling, cajoling, begging… 

Following along with her mother and the Vicomte de Chagny (who seemed very disturbed by the contents of several black-bordered notes signed "O.G."), Meg couldn't quite understand why the two managers were so eager to win back the arrogant soprano.

Certainly, there were a great many people in the Opera who disliked her overbearing manner, her little cruelties to those beneath her… 

And her removal from the Opera would clear the way for Christine Daae to truly shine. She had left the audience breathless during the Gala, her voice had enchanted even the occupants of the Imperial Box.

"She has heard the voice of an angel," she heard her mother say, referring to Christine.

Meg stopped so suddenly that Monsieur Reyer nearly collided with her.

She had seen the note the Vicomte had received…

"Do not fear Miss Daae. The Angel of Music has her under his wing."

Her eyes widened with the sudden thought…the Phantom of the Opera and the Angel of Christine's dreamy tales were one in the same!

How had she not realized it sooner? Why hadn't she realized it when she heard him…but had it even been possible to think clearly, seeing him…hearing him…feeling his voice body and soul like that?

As Carlotta stormed across the stage, dancers and scene-shifters scattering before her, Meg broke from the group.

She had to know more…she had to know…

She turned and hurried up to the dressing room. She closed the door and slid a chair against it. No point in risking another unwelcome visit from Joseph Buquet.

She quickly pulled off her dance frock and slippers. Reaching into one of the battered old wardrobes, she found a plain brown dress and a pair of worn brown ankle boots.

She winced as she eased her sore feet into the boots.

In the hall, she was surprised to meet Joseph. He grinned when she saw her, hurriedly adjusting the fastenings of his pants.

She ignored him and went downstairs to the long hall of dressing rooms.

The key was in the lock of Carlotta's apartment…the room Christine had used the previous night.

Opening the door, she slipped inside. The flowers from the Gala evening had been removed, but Christine's shimmering gown lay draped over the divan. Her starry crystal hair ornaments lay on the dressing table, beside them was a black ribbon tangled around a withering rose.

Meg found the mirror's edge and slid it open. She looked back once and stepped into the darkness again.

She wasn't sure what she would find or even what she was seeking. She was afraid that he might find her…yet some part of her hoped that he would.

This time, the portcullis was open.


	9. Masks Everywhere

Chapter Nine - Masks Everywhere

Meg cautiously waded out past the gate, praying that the water would remain shallow. To her relief, it came just above her knees, but no higher.

Many of the candles were not lit, but there was enough light for her to see the chambers clearly as she climbed the low stone steps.

An ornate pipe organ stood in the center like an altar in the heart of some strange shrine. Scattered around the organ were pages and pages of a musical score written in a familiar bold hand.

She made her way past a row of large mirrors, each hidden by a heavy drape. The wine-colored fabric hung carelessly over the glass as the mirrors had been covered with haste and little care.

In the next alcove, she saw the curiously carved bed, a great black bird with wings that curved to embrace the crimson pillows.

Passing the organ again, she trailed her fingers over the keys, remembering how his hands had moved so gracefully over them.

She went down a second set of steps and found herself surrounded by pictures of Christine.

One watercolor lay on the work table, only half finished…the paint was still damp in places. As if the artist had only just walked away from it.

_He must be near…I should go…if he were to find me here…_

She leaned down and looked at the picture. It was Christine as Meg had seen her last night, lying in that black bed. Her face was pale and innocent against the blood-colored velvet.

There was a thick portfolio filled other pictures, costume sketches…she leafed through them, seeing so many familiar faces there.

La Carlotta, Piangi…she gasped as she recognized herself in a frowzy red dress trimmed with flowers and edged lace.

At the corner of the picture, he had written…

**Mademoiselle Giry…Don Juan Triumphant**

The next picture was not a costume sketch, but an incomplete portrait of a young woman,. Her dark blonde hair tied back with a ribbon, a navy cloak covered the white frock worn by the girls of the corps de ballet.

It was her own mother as a girl…

_Then Maman knows…that explains the notes…but how…_

She set the portfolio down, carefull to place it exactly as she had found it.

There where masks everywhere…lying carelessly on tables or hung from old plaster busts…

A black suede domino lay on the desk beside a glass fountain pen. A familiar white half-mask stared up from the settee where it had been tossed beside a violin.

She felt compelled to touch that white mask, to pick it up and hold it in her own hands…

But as she reached for it, she stumbled over something lying on the floor by the worn settee.

She looked down and saw the coiled rope.

She remembered Joseph Buquet's lurid tales of the Punjab lasso…of her mother's warning.

_Your hand at the level of your eyes!_


	10. To See Within

Chapter Ten - To See Within

_Your hand at the level of your eyes…_

Her mother's words echoed in her mind and she raised her arm.

Only to have her wrist seized by strong fingers.

The assault was sudden, but not unexpected. She had known it was coming from the moment she had trespassed in this place.

Still, she screamed…only to have her cry lost as a leather-covered hand pressed against her mouth.

When the sound died in her throat, the hand moved to her neck.

"Close your eyes and do not move," the voice said, close to her ear.

"Understand, Meg Giry, that if you disobey me," he said in a low voice, "I will not spare you. Not even for your mother's sake."

She did as he asked, closed her eyes tightly and remained still as his grip on her relaxed. She hardly dared to take a breath as she felt him step away from her.

"You may open your eyes, Mademoiselle."

She opened them and found herself looking up at the Opera Ghost.

His mask seem to have a life of its own as he stood before her in the dim and shifting light.

His gray-green eyes seemed to look beyond her own…to see within.

His white shirt was half-opened and his arms were folded across his chest. There was something so powerful, so very masculine about him that Meg found herself blushing despite her fear.

She saw him moisten his lips before addressing her again.

"What are you doing here, little Giry?"

"You know who I am," Meg asked, forgetting for a moment the mysterious return of her gold cross, the strange trust that seemed to exist between this man and her own mother, the picture of herself in a scarlet costume.

"You forget, inquisitive girl, this is _my _theatre. My Opera."

As he spoke, he turned away from her and bent down to look at an elaborate diorama.

Meg moved a little closer and saw the intricate wax figures dressed in the costumes of the theatre's next production, _Il Muto_."

She saw Christine as the Countess, Carlotta as the Page, and herself as the Maid.

She looked up at the man beside her, saw his lips curl into a smile half sarcastic and half longing as he adjusted the position of a figurine.

He walked away from her, went down the steps to stand by the water's edge.

"_My _empire," he said in a mocking voice, opening his arms in a sweeping embrace of his surroundings.

Letting his arms fall abruptly to his sides, he frown at her. The exposed half of his face became as severe as his mask.

"Now, tell me. Why are you here?"

Standing level with him on the stone ledge, she refused to let him frighten her further.

"Are you Christine's Angel," she asked, her voice calmly echoing off the lake.


	11. To Draw The Truth From Her Soul

Chapter Eleven - To Draw The Truth From Her Soul

His eyes held hers as she spoke, but his gaze seemed to soften at the mention of that name.

_He loves Christine…_

"What did she tell you?"

"Only that she had heard the Angel of Music, the Angel her father promised her."

He laughed, the sound was harsh and rich as it carried through the stony chambers.

"Ah, yes, yes. Her father's promise. The promise of an Angel."

Did she dare tell him that she had been there, that she had heard the music meant only for Christine?

"Then how did you come here, little Giry," he demanded, coming up the stone steps to tower over her.

She wanted to turn away, but he held out his hand as if to draw the truth from her soul.

"I was worried about her last night. I saw the opening in the mirror. I followed her, Monsieur…followed you here."

He took another step closer to her and she backed away quickly, stumbling on the coiled lasso and falling onto the divan.

"What did you see, Meg Giry," he snarled, his hands tightening into fists, his breath heavy with anger.

"I watched you….I heard you sing to her," Meg answered in a broken voice, "I saw her faint…I saw you at the organ there…"

"What else did you see," he demanded.

"Nothing, nothing," she sobbed, "When you were at the organ, you turned…I thought you saw me…I ran."

The tense line his shoulders seemed to relax then and he walked away from the divan. She buried her face in the shabby cushions.

_What had happened here…what had he done to Christine. This man was dangerous…he was responsible for the accident that drove Carlotta off the stage…there was rage in him…_

Shaking, she sat up.

She saw him in profile, the mask hidden from her view. He was at his worktable, holding the half-finished portrait in his hands. His features had softened as he examined his painting.

"Oh, Christine, Christine," he whispered.

In the music of his voice, she heard both a question and a plea.

He laid down the picture and faced her again.

His anger had gone and her courage returned.

"Monsieur, why did you tell me to close my eyes."

He did not answer her, but she saw one hand moved almost involuntarily to touch his mask, black against white…as if to make sure it was really there.

And she knew that when he found her there, his face had been uncovered.

_What does that mask conceal…surely not his identity…it covers only half his face…what does he need to hide?_


	12. The Only Reality

Chapter Twelve - The Only Reality

Meg watched for a moment as his fingers brushed against the artificial features.

She would not ask. The mask was there to conceal, not to inspire her curiosity.

She rose and tried to straighten her rumpled dress. She had stayed too long…her mother would be worried.

"I should go, Monsieur. Please forgive me, I should not have intruded."

His lips curled into a sneer beneath his mask as he donned a waistcoat and dress jacket.

"No, little Giry, you should not have come here. It could have been very dangerous for you."

"Would you have harmed me, then?"

"No. But only for your mother's sake and for Christine's," he said, shaking his head as he picked up a silk cravat from the back of a chair.

"Monsieur, how is it that you know my mother so well?"

Yet again he left her question unanswered.

"It's time you returned. Come…you need not wade across the lake again."

Stepping behind her, he laid the cravat over her eyes and tied it behind her head.

She was startled by the sudden blindness and by the abruptness of the gesture itself.

"There are many entrances to this place, Mademoiselle. But they are of no concern to you."

She shivered a little, partly because of the dampness of her clothing, partly because of the nearness of his voice.

He must have seen her tremble; a moment later she felt the soft weight of a wool and silk cloak settle over her shoulders.

Then he took her fingertips and led her from his sanctuary.

She had no choice, but to trust this Angel…this Phantom…this man who was the only reality as she walked in the darkness.

At last he stopped and removed the silk from her eyes.

Blinking, she looked around and found that they were in a tiny passage. It was so dark that she felt as if she were still blindfolded.

He was near her, though, she could feel his arm brush hers and see the pale sheen of his mask in the gloom.

"Just turn to your right and walk straight; there is a door and you will find your own way."

As he spoke, he slid the cape from her shoulders and she knew he was moving away from her.

She heard his voice, disembodied and far away. But so clear and too masterful.

"If you say a word to Christine, Mademoiselle, my respect for your mother will not protect you."


	13. The Fragmented Sky

Chapter Thirteen - The Fragmented Sky

Meg did as he had told her, turning right and feeling her way with her hands. A door gave way before her and she found herself in a tiny hall near the chapel.

She ran upstairs to change before her mother or anyone else could question her clothing.

The noise and the chaos of the theater she had been raised in suddenly seemed so foreign to her, so unreal compared to the mysterious peace of that candle-filled grotto on the lake.

During evening rehearsals, she was little more than an automaton. Her encounter with the Opera Ghost played over and over in her heard, his words almost drowning out her mother's instructions and the sound of the piano.

Again and again, she felt his hand on her wrist, on her mouth, on her neck…the warm black leather pressed tight against her skin.

"Your shoulders, Meg Giry, your shoulders!"

She looked up at her mother's reprimand and adjusted her posture.

Watching her mother walked back and forth along the line of dancers with her silver cane ready to point out lapses, she thought of the picture she had found among the Phantom's belongings.

_They know each other…she is more than just his messenger_.

But she could not imagine what link could exist between the Opera's ballet mistress and its Ghost.

She knew she could not question her mother about her ties to this man, this man who covered his face from the world and hid himself amidst books and paintings and music.

To question her mother, though, would mean admitting to her own encounters with him.

In less than two days, the strange man destroyed the trust she shared with Christine and with her own mother.

She sighed, knowing that the betrayals were mutual. Neither her mother or her dearest friends saw fit to confide in her.

As she dismissed them from practice, Madame Giry reminded them that their costume fittings for _Il Muto_ were scheduled for the morning.

* * *

She lay awake, staring up at the fragmented sky beyond the round window, beyond the Opera rooftop.

A low rustle caught her attention and she rolled over to see its source.

Lorette, one of the older ballet tarts, had thrown back her coverlet and risen. She picked her way to the door, glancing nervously about to see if she had been noticed.

Turning her attention to the window again, Meg saw the tall girl step out onto the roof. It was a chilly night and the wind tugged at the girl's drab shawl.

A man stepped out from beyond one of the massive statue, the half-empty brandy bottle sparkling in the starlight.

Lorette seemed to giggle as Joseph Buquet bent her over and pushed up her nightdress, her black hair whipping back and forth in the wind.

Meg turned away from the window. She remembered the times when Monsieur Lefevre had done the same to her in the ornate clutter of his office.

She settled back in her bed. As she did, she caught a glimpse of Christine.

She was sitting up and it seemed as if she were listening for something in the darkness. But, whatever it was that she hope to hear, she did not. Slumping with disappointment, she buried her face in her pillow.


	14. Desire and Loneliness

_Thanks for all the reviews so far...I enjoy reading them._

_There's a brief POV shift at the beginning of this chapter...then, back to Meg Giry_

* * *

Chapter Fourteen - Desire and Loneliness

The Opera Ghost returned alone to his home, his haven beneath the cellars and vaults.

Tossing his cape carelessly across the bed, he looked around.

This was all for her. All for his Christine.

The theatre was his, but this he had created for her alone.

A ribbon lay on the floor, a fragile strip of silk beside his Punjab lasso.

He bent and picked it up, stretched the length of it between his fingers.

It must have come loose from Meg Giry's hair when he'd seized her from behind.

Damn that girl for her intrusion, for her inquisitiveness.

He had once promised Madame Giry that he would make her only daughter an Empress.

He chuckled softly to himself. The sooner that curious child was out of his Opera House the better. But, for now, he had more pressing concerns/

Still holding the ribbon in his hands, he walked down to the lake. He let it drop, watch as it floated for a moment before slowly sinking into the pale green shimmer of the water.

Then, removing his mask and placing it carefully over the perfect features of a marble bust, he sat down at the organ.

He glanced quickly over the score of _Don Juan Triumphant_ and smiled.

His gift for Christine was not yet ready. His hour had not yet come.

Setting down the pages, he began to play. He let the desire and the loneliness flow into his music.

With those first notes, Mademoiselle Giry was forgotten.

Meg and Christine stood side by side as one of the seamstresses checked the hems of their skirts for _Il Muto._

"Here, Mademoiselle Daae," Madame Poilaine was explaining, "is the hook for the skirt. It will release easily when you go to pull it off in the boudoir scene."

Christine nodded, then looked at her friend.

"Meg, do you think the Vicomte de Chagny will be at the performance tonight?"

The question surprised Meg. Christine had been unusually quiet since the night of the Gala, though the color had returned to her face and the blue-gray shadows had faded from beneath her eyes.

"The Vicomte de Chagny? Why, I don't know, Christine…I heard Monsieur Firmin telling Maman that the Countess de Chambrun and Madame de Laspierre were both bring large parties of friends. And that the Marquis de Lamberville was very angry that there were no boxes left."

From the adjacent room, they heard La Carolotta screech in anger at someone as final adjustments were made to her voluminous pink silk gown.

Meg herself gave a little cry as Madame Poilaine's assistant accidentally jabbed her calf with a pin.

"Sorry, Madame," the girl muttered sullenly as Madame Poilaine frowned at her helper, "Sorry, Meg."

But Meg had already forgotten the momentary pain as she looked idly at the lacy cap in her hands.

_Oh, Christine, can't you see…you Angel is worth a thousand Vicomtes._


	15. The Soft and Mocking Voice

Chapter Fifteen - The Soft and Mocking Voice

Meg watched as Christine took her place on the stage with La Carlotta. Her friend was calm, but Meg knew she was also frightened.

And how could she not be frightened? Meg was all too aware of the black-edge note that demanded Mademoiselle Daae be given the chance to repeat her Gala triumph by singing the role of the Countess in _Il Muto_.

The managers had defied the Opera Ghost and given the lead to Carlotta.

Adjusting the striped bodice of her maid's costume one more time, Meg took her own place with Sylvie, Adolphe, Louis, and Martin.

Glancing across the stage, she could see Piangi, appropriately ridiculous in green silk.

She heard a heavy step on the catwalk about her Joseph Buquet was there.

At his post, but leering down at her. He winked when he caught her eye.

The curtains swept open.

As they stepped forward, Meg looked up at Box Five.

That had been another the Phantom's requests, that Box Five be reserved for his use.

Raoul de Chagny was seated there and Meg wondered at his nerve.

Surely _he _was there…somewhere, watching them.

Watching his beloved Christine banished to the silent role of the Page.

Meg had little time to ponder the consequences of denying the Opera Ghost twice in one night. She gave her head the expected saucy toss as they sang,

_They say that this youth has set my lady's heart a-flame._

Minutes later, when the new maid was revealed as the Pageboy in disguise, the air itself seemed to tremble around them as a low voice echoed through the auditorium.

_Did I not instruct that Box Five was to be kept empty?_

Even the great chandelier seemed to shiver at the Phantom's words. A frightened, confused murmur moved through the audience as they looked around, vainly trying to see who had spoken.

"He's the Phantom of the Opera," Meg gasped aloud before she could stop herself.

Biting her lip, she glanced across to Christine, hoping she had not given herself away.

Christine did not see her. Her eyes were fixed on the chandelier and, for a second, Meg thought she saw a shadow, a dark movement against the bright murals.

"It's him," Christine whispered, the terror edging her voice, "I know it. It's him."

Carlotta glanced at the younger singer, murder in her eyes.

"Your part is silently, little toad," she hissed.

_A toad, Madame…perhaps it is you who are the toad!_

Carlotta tried to pretend she had not heard the soft and mocking voice. She gestured for her throat spray, then snapped her fan in an impatient gesture at Monsieur Reyer.

_Serfimo, away with this pretense! You can't not speak, but kiss me in my husbands…._

_**Croak….**_


	16. Cupids and Summery Skies

Chapter Sixteen - Cupids and Summery Skies

With each croak of Carlotta's voice, the chaos on the stage increased. So did the barely controllable laughter of the audience.

With the exception of the stunned managers and her usual hangers-on, there were few who did not find the proud diva's unexpected humiliation to be very, very amusing.

Christine was not laughing, she glanced nervously up the box where her childhood sweetheart sat.

It had to be his doing, it had to be some trick of his.

Meg looked up towards the murals where she thought she had spied him, dark and tall against the blue and gold of cupids and summery skies.

He was not there, but she saw Joseph Buquet's seedy figure running along the narrow walkway and vanishing into the discreet service door. 

Somehow, Messieurs Firmin and Andre managed to scurry from their private box down to the crowded stage.

One of those two aging dandies caught Christine by the arm and pulled her in front of the just-closed curtain to announce to the still snickering audience that Mademoiselle Daae would take the role of the Countess for the remainder of the evening.

"Meg, quickly, change your costume," Madame Giry ordered her daughter as she ushered the ballet girls into place.

The older woman then took Christine by the hand.

"Come, child, you must hurry and change, too." 

Meg seized her costume from one of the assistant dressers as her mother led Christine away.

As she hurried undid her stripped maid's bodice to exchange for the light green one of the shepherdess gown, she heard a heavy creaking and sudden rustle in the flies above her.

She craned her head and saw the one of the catwalks was rocking as if someone had run across it. Her fingers moved faster, closing the tight bodice over her chemise…

Then Joseph Buquet came plummeting down, hurtling into the midst of the swirling skirts of the dancers.

Meg's scream was one of many that replaced the giddy, pastoral music of the ballet as the scene-shifters body jerked back and forth.

Backing against a piece of scenery, Meg found the hideous spectacle reminded her…for the briefest of breaths…of Lefevre in the depths of passion.

Even as the horror of seeing Joseph's corpse dangling before her, Meg felt a sudden and guiltless relief at his death.

She knew at once that the man had not hanged himself, even as one of the managers stammered something about a tragic accident.

The Opera Ghost had killed Buquet and Meg found herself strangely grateful to him for this act of murder.

Shaking, she allowed herself to be pushed along with the crowd of panicking dancers flocking to her mother. 

Looking back once at Buquet's now still body, she saw the Vicomte pushing through the crowd.

She saw Christine, a scarlet cloak over her bodice and underskirt, pulling him off the stage, toward the iron stairs.


	17. Another Cautious Glance

Chapter Seventeen - Another Cautious Glance

For days, talk of Buquet's death filled the Opera Populaire.

No one was sure if it had been an accident…Buquet's drinking had, from time to time, caused minor problems.

Or was it a suicide? Such things were known to happen…only the previous year, one of the younger carpenters had taken arsenic in the prop room after being jilted by a pretty seamstress.

Or was he murdered? If he was, well, then surely the Opera Ghost had a hand in the crime!

But as the shock wore off, the unpopular scene-shifter was buried and forgotten. The ballet girls, especially, breathed easier now that he was no longer lurking in the halls near their dressing rooms and dormitories.

The Opera Ghost seemed less real, less of a threat, than Buquet and his wandering hands.

Two mornings after the disaster of _Il Muto_, Meg was surprised when Christine shook her awake.

"Meg, will you come with me to the café today? I've already asked your Maman and she says we may go."

Meg was usually the one to suggest such an outing, dragging the quieter Christine along in her wake.

The two young women rarely ventured out of the theatre; apart from afternoons in the café, strolls in the Bois with Madame Giry and the rest of the corps de ballet, or the occasional visit to the cemetery where both girl's fathers were buried, they knew very little of the world beyond the Opera Populaire

"Of course, I will," Meg answered, scrambling out of bed.

"Meg, I have something to tell you," Christine whispered. She was smiling, but Meg couldn't help noticing the wary glance around the room.

Nevertheless, both young women were lighthearted as they dressed in their best frocks, Christine in dark blue and Meg in deep rose.

As they crossed the Place de'Opera to the café, the pretty pair received more than their share of admiring glances from passing men.

Instead of their favorite table which looked out onto the crowded boulevard, Christine led Meg to a smaller, quieter corner of the restaurant.

They ordered café au lait and tarts, Meg chose lemon, Christine still had her childhood fondness for chocolate.

A half hour passed in idle gossip before Christine suddenly leaned across the table and took her friend's hand.

"Meg, you must swear to me…you must promise you will not tell anyone. Not even your Maman."

"Christine, what is this all about? What has happened?"

Christine squeezed her hand gently.

"Raoul has asked me to marry him."

With another cautious glance over her shoulders, Christine drew a chain from the bodice of her dress. A large diamond sparked and flashed in the dim café.

Even as she smiled at Christine, another feeling overwhelmed Meg's happiness for her friend.

She felt her heart tightening with pity. Not fear, but pity for the man who loved Christine…the man forced to live as a Ghost.


	18. To See Him Again

Chapter Eighteen - To See Him Again

"Only," Christine had said, as she tucked the ring and chain back inside her frock, "you must not tell anyone. Not even your Maman."

Those words haunted Meg in the weeks to come. She knew very well why Christine wanted to keep her engagement to the Vicomte a secret. The girl was afraid for her childhood sweetheart, afraid that he would meet the same fate as Joseph Buquet if the Opera Ghost knew…

But there had been no sign of the Phantom in the aftermath of the _Il Muto_ disaster. There were no notes, no demands, no mysteries accidents, no reports of a figure glimpsed in the shadows.

_He's still here…silent, but still here…I know it._

There were times when Meg wanted to seek him out, to tell him that Christine was going to marry Raoul de Chagny.

_It would be better for her if I told him, wouldn't it…he wouldn't have a chance to take his anger out on Christine if I told him first…and I don't think he'd hurt me…for my mother's sake…even if he did threaten me…_

One morning, she even took her mother's keys and let herself into Carlotta's dressing room. She stood before the mirror, pressed her palms against it.

_But perhaps he already knows…perhaps that's why he is silent now…perhaps he is dead…_

She let her hands fall slack and took a single step back from the mirror.

_You just want to see him again…that's all._

"What are you doing in my dressing room, you little tramp!"

Meg turned to see La Carlotta in the doorway, large and bright in a purple and green walking suit.

"You touch my things? Get out…get out!"

Meg quickly scampered from the room, eager to avoid a typical shrill tirade from the diva. Even as she darted back down the hall to return the key, she could hear La Carlotta raging at her hairdresser.

The Opera Ghost stood behind the mirror. He came there still, from time to time, hoping that Christine would be there.

Hoping that she would seek him out, that her promise of love to that damned fop was nothing more than a moment of fear…that she'd only panicked after Buquet's death.

She never came.

He watched as Meg Giry approached the mirror. For a second, it seemed she would open it.

_What does that damned girl want with me?_

_She's like her mother isn't she…no real fear in her. _

He saw her frown, undecided…but not afraid.

He leaned against the stone wall, feeling the cool comfort of it against his back.

He was tired…he had been working for days, his clothes and mask were smudge with ink. His hands and shoulders ached from endless hours at the organ.

If Christine should see him this way…would she understand he was giving her his soul?

He heard La Carlotta screaming at one of her lackeys. He had no interest in that woman and her tirades. He had humiliated her. That was enough.

He turned and followed the darkness home.


	19. Still Here

Chapter Nineteen - Still Here

The very public death of Joseph Buquet in the middle of a popular opera had not benefited the Opera Populaire.

Hoping to recapture the confidence of the audience, Messieurs Andre and Firmin had made certain that year's Masked Bal would be the most magnificent one in years.

Meg and Christine spent hours with the seamstresses, excitedly choosing their gowns.

Christine was going as a rose and had selected a dress of the most delicate shade of pink, all trimmed with lace and crystals.

Meg would go as a swan, in shimmering white satin. It would contrasted with her mother's black costume with its Oriental trim.

In all those weeks since they had shared café au lait and pastries, Christine never again mentioned her engagement. She kept the Vicomte's ring well hidden.

As the day of the ball neared and the wardrobe rooms became cluttered with masks of every description, Meg saw that Christine seemed to avoid those displays of false faces as much as she could.

Meg felt herself drawn to them, fascinated by them. One evening, after their last fittings, she lingered over them.

She found a white silk-half mask that reminded her of him…she slipped it over the left side of her face and looked in the mirror.

_What is it like to go through life like that…concealed…hidden from the world…and why…_

She shuddered a little at the thought, unwilling to imagine the loneliness…a loneliness he'd hope Christine would ease.

_Christine isn't that strong…she lacks the courage to help him…even if she didn't love Raoul…she could never…._

Setting the mask aside, she went down to the chapel, thinking Christine might be there.

The little room was empty, the candles flickering, the stained-glass light making the angels radiant.

Carefully folding her skirt to cushion her knees, she knelt to say a prayer for her father.

He watched Meg kneeling alone in the chapel, her hand resting over that little gold cross of hers.

She lit a candle for her father and rose to go,

"Mademoiselle Giry!"

She turned, only out of instinct. She knew she would not see the man who spoke, that there was no one else there.

_He was still alive…still here…in his theatre…_

"Yes, Monsieur?"

Even as she spoke, she thought it was so odd to call a ghost _Monsieur_…but he was no ghost, was he.

She knew very well that he was a man…and she wondered if he had a name.

"Tell me one thing, little Giry. This ball…will Christine be there?"

"Yes, Monsieur. She will be there."


	20. Does He Know

Chapter Twenty - Does He Know?

Madame Giry helped her daughter dress for the Masked Ball in her own little apartment below the ballet dormitories.

She pinned the last crystal ornament in Meg's fair hair, then gave her a gentle tap on her shoulder.

"Now, you look beautiful, ma petite. Go and wait for me on the mezzanine. I must get ready, too."

"Where is Christine, Maman," Meg asked, drawing on her gloves.

Madame Giry sat down on the worn sofa and removed her slippers.

"Ah, she did not tell you? The Vicomte de Chagny will be escorting her tonight."

Meg was surprised by this. Christine had remained silent all these months and the Vicomte had given no sign of his interest in the soprano.

"I know about the engagement, ma petite, I saw the ring."

The older lady misread her daughter's expression and smiled at her only child.

"Don't worry, Meg. Your day will come soon."

Though the rarely spoke of it - in fact they had few opportunities to speak as mother and daughter amid the rush of the Opera ballet - Meg knew her mother had hopes that Meg herself would make such a marriage, too.

Picking up her soft white fan, Meg looked at the black-edged envelopes that lay on the armoire.

"Does _he_ know, Maman?"

Madamae Giry followed her daughter's gaze to the Phantom's letters.

"No, _he_ does not know."

She rose, one black stocking still draped over her wrist.

"Ma petite, was has Christine told you…about him?"

Meg knew she could not fully explain herself to her mother, not without admitting what she had done, where she had gone. Another thread of trust had been severed.

"Nothing Maman. Only that she had heard the Angel of Music…"

Madame Giry picked up the letters and put them into the drawer of the tiny writing desk in the corner. Locking it, she turned back to her daughter.

"Go downstairs, Meg. I will join you soon. We must not keep our managers waiting."

Looking down into the Grand Foyer, Meg felt as if she would drown in a sea of gold and light. Below her, patrons danced and laughed, toasting each other as if the night's success was to their own credit.

There was a sense of triumph as the managers congratulated themselves on the party and the absence of the Phantom from the Opera Populaire.

_For all they know, he might be standing there…just a breath away…what better place for him…a room full of masks…_

She saw Christine on the Vicomte's arm, saw her stand on tiptoe to kiss him.

_They do love each other…they were meant for each other. But why must she be so cruel to her Angel…if she would just leave now, just spare him from seeing this…_

Meg watched them, a hint of fear restraining her own delight in the party.


	21. In Their Midst

Chapter Twenty-One - In Their Midst

"Mademoiselle Giry?"

Meg turned to see a young man. He was dressed in black velvet all trimmed with gold. The slim, sparkling domino barely concealed a boyish, aristocratic face.

She recognized him as a regular patron, a wealthy student from Normandie who often sent flowers to ballet girls.

"Will you please dance with me, Mademoiselle Giry?"

She glanced down at his outstretched hand in its spotless white glove. And found herself remembering other hands in black leather.

Would it always be like this, would she forever compare each man to him…to a ghost in human flesh.

She shook her head and politely excused herself, finding her mother again in the dizzying swirl of the crowd.

A footman approached with a silver tray, ready to offer them champagne.

As the lights of the Grand Foyer suddenly dimmed, the glass slipped from Meg's hand. The delicate shards gleamed as the lights flared as abruptly as they had lowered.

The crowd of revelers fell silent as if Death had appeared in there midst.

A man had appeared at the head of the stairs, a man in crimson, a gray-white skull of a mask covering his face.

He surveyed the stunned guests, his lips curved in a confident smirk as he came down the steps slowly, prolonging the fear, enjoying it. The scarlet silk of his cloak trained down the steps, a river of blood.

"Who is he," a woman behind Meg dared to whisper. No one answered her.

It was his eyes…gray-green and burning beneath the hideous mask…that betrayed him to Meg.

And she found that she could hardly bear to look at him, yet she lacked the strength or will to turn away.

An old story drifted into her mind…she was not sure if it was a fairy tale from childhood or some half-forgotten opera…a story of a prince or god or hero so beautiful that no one could look upon him without being reduced to dust and ashes.

Yet she knew…she was certain that some darkness lay beneath that mask, not radiance.

The others recognized him when he spoke, recalled the voice that had taunted and threatened during _Il Muto_.

"Why so silent, good Messieurs? Did you think that I had left you for good?"

He held up a black portfolio, its cover embossed with gold letters.

"I have written you an opera! Here…I bring the finished score…_Don Juan Triumphant_!"

It what seemed to be one single motion, he flung down the portfolio…a few pages sliding out onto the marble floor…and drew his sword.

"Fondest greetings to you all," he said, knowing that a faint murmur trembled through the foyer…

_He's here…the Phantom…the Opera Ghost…_


	22. A Single Hesitant Step

Chapter Twenty-two - A Single Hesitant Step

As the Opera Ghost taunted La Carlotta and Signor Piangi, boldly prodding at them with his sword, Meg forced herself to look away.

She glanced at Christine. Raoul was no longer at her side and the girl stood at the foot of the staircase, watching numbly as the Phantom jabbed at _his _managers, insulting their ability to run the theatre.

Then he looked down at Christine. Meg saw the arrogance drain from his body as he stood transfixed.

_Let her return to me…her teacher…her teacher…_

It was no demand, it was a plea. Even as he mocked Christine's pride, he let his own vanish, let his eyes plead with her.

Christine took a single hesitant step towards her Angel. Meg saw her mother's small half-nod of encouragement.

Meg heard the sound of someone running in the upper gallery as the Phantom slowly held out one hand to Christine.

For his sake, Meg prayed that Christine would take his hand. For her own sake, she hoped Christine would turn away.

The light caught the diamonds of Christine's ring, drawing his eyes to it.

In a moment, the tenderness was gone. But, before the blaze of anger, Meg swore there was a moment of anguish before the rage…before he reached out and tore the ring from her neck.

And then he was gone, vanishing from them in a storm of rage.

A second later, the Vicomte de Chagney had leapt after him, plummeting down through the trap door before it snapped shut.

As the crowd began to swirl with fear and shock., Meg felt her mother's hand on her arm.

"Gather the other girls and go back to the dormitories."

The ballet mistress did not wait for her daughter to obey or protest. She quickly pushed her way through the terrified throng and hurried from the Grand Foyer.

Meg ignored her mother's warning. She was sure her mother knew where he had gone.

She looked back at Christine. She was sobbing, Monsieur Andre trying awkwardly to comfort her.

Meg knew she should go to her friend, to do her best to reassure her.

Instead, she ran from the Foyer.

* * *

_Yes...this is a very short chapter...but it has to be that way...it's setting the stage for Chapter 23...Meg's going to get into some trouble a la Leroux_


	23. A Dirty White Dress

Chapter Twenty-three - A Dirty White Dress

Doing her best to follow unseen, Meg lost sight of her mother in the twisting service corridors beyond the storage rooms and the theatre chapel.

But it was only for a moment. She soon heard the dull grating of iron, then two sets of footsteps in the quiet, dusty passage.

She pushed open a door…it led to one of rooms were large pieces of scenery where stored. She slipped inside, wedging herself between sets from _La Profete _and _Le Roi de Lahore _and kept the door open just enough to see the corridor.

A pair of shadows moved across the wall, a man and a woman.

Her mother passed by, holding a small, flickering lamp and leading the Vicomte de Chagny by the arm.

Madame Giry's face was calm, but Raoul's was flushed, his hair hanging free from its silk ribbon.

"Madame," he said, breathing heavily, "you must tell me what you know. For Christine's sake."

"I know nothing that would help you," her mother protested as they turned a corner and passed out of Meg's hearing.

As she crept back into the hall, Meg realized that her white dress was now smudged with grime from her hiding place.

It was too late now to worry about such things as spoiled gowns. Such things no longer mattered.

The iron gate was not locked and, pushing it open, Meg found a narrow flight of stone steps led downward.

She gathered the train of her dress more carefully over her arm. It was already ruined, but she did not want to trip and fall on those steep steps.

She descended and within moments, she found herself lost as the tight, damp passage made turn after turn.

Her corset was too tight and she leaned back against the chill of the wall, fighting to take a deep breath.

On the opposite wall, she saw a door. The tunnel stretched into shadows in either direction. She had nothing to lose.

As she open the door, she saw a piece of gold braid on the threshold. She knew it must have torn from the Vicomte's costume.

Something else on the floor caught her attention and she stooped to see it clearly…a noose lay limp on the flagstones.

She felt herself growing dizzy as she remembered the coil of rope on the floor in the Opera Ghost's strange home and the hanging of Joseph Buquet.

_Oh, mon Dieu, if I should faint now…who would find me here?_

Straightening, she saw a young woman in a dirty white gown standing before her.


	24. The Blurred and Spinning Memories

Chapter Twenty-four - The Blurred and Spinning Memories

Meg screamed when she saw the ghostly image of herself in the shadowed mirror, an image that was reflected around her, over and over and over.

Her face was pale, streaked with dust and tears…she did not known when or why she had been crying. Her golden hair had fallen loose, her dress was filthy.

She spun towards the door. It had closed and was lost somewhere within this devilish ring of turning mirrors.

She was trapped, alone in this dim room…alone, but surrounded by herself…her frightened self.

Why did she find herself remembering that first night with Monsieur Lefevre…had she been trapped then, too?

She reached out, trying to find some door, some way out of this hell of mirrors…and the others reached out to her.

Stumbling, shaking, she tried to turn. Her slipper caught the loop of the lasso and she fell to the floor heavily.

She screamed again, knowing she would die in this place…unless he found her first…

The room seemed to flood with scarlet…was it blood?

A figure…no, a hundred figures in crimson velvet surrounded her huddled body.

She raised her head, expecting to see his mask there, a white half-mask or a silver-gray skull…

She was not prepared for the horror of the distorted face she saw looking down at her…

She no longer fought to stay conscious, but let herself slips into the mercy of a blackness that was free from terror…

Meg was not quite sure what awakened her…the unfamiliar softness of the large bed, the gentle lap of water against stone, or the voice…

_Shamed into solitude…I learned to listen…in the dark, my heart heard music…_

She felt a gentle weight on her body…a black cloak lay over her like a pall.

She pushed it back slowly…she was still dress in her white gown, the stays of her corset jabbing her as she rolled onto her side to sit up.

He was at his work table, leaning back in his chair…a rose in his hand, his face covered by the comfort of the white mask…

She shuddered as she rose, feeling the cold stone floor through the soles of her satin shoes.

The blurred and spinning memories of that mirrored hell came back quickly…now she knew the truth beneath that mask…the twisting, ravaged features that it concealed…

He did not look up or turn towards her as he laid a rose on the desk, its petals resting brightly on a sketch of Christine.

"This is the third time you have trespassed here, Mademoiselle. I swear to you, the next time will be the last!"


	25. If I Came To Him Here And Now

Chapter Twenty-five - If I Came To Him Here And Now

Meg was not sure how to respond to him. His voice had been sharp with anger, but that anger seemed muted, too. Shaded by preoccupation.

She hesitated…she could not explain to him why she had come, she could not explain it to herself. She felt so helpless, recalling the look in his eyes in the Grand Foyer.

_And what do you think you can do about it? Reason with him? Try to turn him from her? _

"Monsieur, I…"

He leapt to his feet and advanced on her.

"I have a name, damn you!"

He strode past her so quickly that she was forced to step aside, backing against a velvet-draped mirror.

On the steps, he turned and spread his arms out as if embracing the cluttered lair with all of the books, the pictures, the furnishings stolen from the scenery warehouse, the scattered sheets of music, the pipe organ in the center of it all.

"I am called angel, devil, murderer, phantom, but I have a _name_…a name…it is Erik!"

He continued up the steps and threw himself down onto heavily-carved black chair. Theornate throne seemed to dwarf even his powerful figure as he rested his chin on his clenched fist. The white of his mask and his half-open shirt stood out against the inky upholstery

His shoulders shook, but Meg could not tell if it was with rage or sorrow.

She followed him up the steps, letting the sullied train drag across the Persian rugs.

_What would he do if I tried to comfort him…if I put my arms around him and held him close…if I came to him here and now._

Slowly, she knelt down in front of him, resisting the child-like impulse to rest her head on his knee.

"Erik, Erik," she said the name so carefully, "Erik, let me help you."

As she spoke, she laid her small hand on him, feeling the hard warmth of his thigh beneath the expensive ebony cloth of his trousers.

He seemed, for a moment at least, unaware of her existence. He was looking out across the lake, out beyond the portcullis.

Meg let her hand wander a little further, feeling the strength of his body beneath her palm.

"Erik…"

He looked down at her hand as if it were a scorpion crawling along the length of his thigh.

"Help me? There is nothing _you_ can do for me, Mademoiselle," he said through clenched teeth.

He laid his hand over hers, his fingers completely enveloping it. Then he rose abruptly, causing her to fall back on the intricately patterned, but badly faded rug.

Picking up the waist coat and dress jacket that on the scarred wooden trunk, he stepped past her, almost over her.

When he returned, he was dressed and the sword was buckled at this hip. He wore the black cloak that had served as Meg's blanket, but a larger hooded cloak lay over his arm.

"Get up," he ordered her.

She did not obey him, too tired and humiliated to move.

He bent and, taking her by her arm, pulled her to her feet.

He draped the cloak over his own shoulders, then swept it about her, too.

She was stunned by the sudden nearness of him beneath that swirl and drape of heavy wool.


	26. Beneath The Wings of A Fallen Angel

Chapter Twenty-Six - Beneath The Wings of A Fallen Angel

She was completely enshrouded with him and had no choice to keep pace with him as he led her from the grotto.

"I will not bother to blindfold you this time, Mademoiselle. You have my warning."

It was chilly and damp in passageways that he drew her through, his body often grazing against hers at the narrow turns and ascents.

He seemed almost unaware of her presence, folded closely beneath his cloak, as if beneath the wings of a fallen angel.

She could not forget his presence beside her. She did not dare lean against him now, not grasp his gloved hand for support.

Not after the way he'd pushed her aside.

He walked quickly, his steps driven by some unspoken intent, yet he seemed to know exactly when she would falter.

Before her knees gave way with exhaustion, before she slipped from beneath the cape, he suddenly stopped and she lurched against him.

Suddenly, he lifted the petite dancer off her feet and into his arms.

He said nothing and his eyes did not meet hers as he carried her the remainder of the way, cradled between the warmth of his chest and the shelter of his cloak.

Finally, he set her down and drew back the cape. She shivered a little as he opened a grate-like door.

They were in a tiny alley that opened out into the Opera stable yard. At the far end, she could see that dull gray of the pre-dawn sky.

Meg knew that place well. As a child, she and Christine would sneak away from rehearsals to pet the horses, to feed them sugar and carrots from the commissary.

As a young woman, it had been the scene of several of her trysts with Monsieur Lefevre. Her mother rarely ventured down to the stables.

At the end of the walkway, he paused. The alley was so narrow, her body almost met his as he faced her.

"I trust you recognize this place, Mademoiselle."

Meg caught the insinuation in his low voice and flushed. Even he knew of that affair.

"Erik…is that why you drew me as a whore…I saw that picture, you called me The Harlot."

"No, Mademoiselle. I assure you that your…intimacy…with my former manager had nothing to do with it. I simply needed a pretty chorus girl who could sing and dance well enough for the part. You are far too curious."

He glanced out to the cobbled yard. The sky was only now beginning to pale a little.

"I assume, Mademoiselle, you can make it back to the dormitory on your own now."

She nodded and he left her, walking away into the shadows against the courtyard walls.

Bowed with weariness and despair, Meg climbed the plain wooden stairs that led to the ballet dormitory. A chair had been pulled in front of the door.

Raoul de Chagny sat there, his sword laid across his knees. He seemed half-asleep, but looked up as if startled when Meg approached.

"Oh," he said, "it's just you, little Giry."


	27. The Face Beneath The Mask

Chapter Twenty-Seven - The Face Beneath The Mask

The Vicomte pushed back his chair enough to let Meg enter the dormitory.

"Yes," she said to herself as she made her way to her bed, "it's just little Giry, little Meg."

She struggled out of her costume and the corset, taking a single deep breath as she slumped onto the bed in her chemise.

Turning over slowly to draw the blankets close, she found that she missed the warm of his cape around her.

_No…you miss the warmth of him near you._ _Why didn't you follow him?_

She looked at next bed where Christine lay sleeping. In a few minutes, dawn would glow through that window and light her face with gray light.

And Raoul de Chagny waited outside that door, waited to protect her.

It was only then, as she let her body ease into sleep that she remembered the face beneath the mask.

She had only a sudden, whirling glimpse of his face in that terrible room of mirrors. But she knew the reason why the enchantment she had seen in Christine's eyes that Gala night had turned to fear…

_Christine has seen his face…_

"Oh, poor Erik," she whispered…

Meg did not awake until early afternoon.

Sitting up in bed, she saw her mother standing before her. The ruined costume was in her mother's hands.

"I told you to return here last night."

To Meg's surprise, her mother's voice held none of the expected anger.

"Where were you, ma petite?"

"I tried to follow you, Maman. I got lost."

She did not add that she had become trap in that mirrored hell or that she had seen the Opera Ghost…that she had seen Erik again…that she now knew his secret.

Her mother folded the silk dress and handed her daughter a fresh practice frock.

"Christine left the theatre before sunrise. The Vicomte must have gone with her."

Meg had been buttoning the frock, but paused.

"Do you think they've eloped? That they've gone to marry?"

"I wish I knew, Meg. Come, there are rehearsals. We've little to prepare for this _Don Juan._"

Meg obediently followed her mother down the stairs.

On the landing, though, she stopped.

"Maman, you must tell me now…the Phantom…and you…why does he trust you? Why do you deliver his messages?"

The ballet mistress faced her daughter.

"Yes. I suppose it is time you heard the truth. I knew met when we were young…at a gypsy fair…I brought him here to the Opera Populare. Right or wrong, I cannot say now."


	28. Christine, I Know The Truth

Chapter Twenty-eight - Christine, I Know The Truth

It was later evening when Christine and the Vicomte returned to the Opera Populaire.

When Meg caught a glimpse of them in the foyer, she knew that something terrible had happened to them. This had been no simple elopement.

Christine was like a ghost, her face was white with purple-gray shadows beneath her large eyes. The Vicomte's shirt was torn in several places, the sleeve cut away to reveal a bandage. He kept his other arm around Christine.

Messieurs Firmin and Andre met them at the foot of the staircase. From her vantage point in the gallery, Meg could not hear what Raoul said to them, but he seemed to be entrusting Christine to their care.

Giving Christine a kiss on her forehead, the Vicomte left Christine in the care of the managers.

Monsieur Andre caught sight of Meg in the gallery

"Mademoiselle Giry, come here," he called and motioned for her to join them.

When she had hurried down the marble steps to them, Monsieur Firmin gently nudged Christine towards her.

"Mademoiselle Giry," Andre said, "would you please take Mademoiselle Daae to your rooms and stay with her until your mother comes. Do not let her out of your sight until then, do you understand. We have strict orders from the Vicomte that she is not to be left alone for a moment."

Meg nodded and took her friend's hand.

"Come, Christine…everything is all right."

Back in the dormitory, Meg helped Christine change out of her damp black dress and gave her friend her own blue dressing gown.

She knew that whatever had befallen the couple, Erik had been involved. Raoul had been wounded….and Erik? Was he hurt, too? Or…no, she couldn't let herself think that he had been harmed.

"Christine, you must tell me," she said, sitting beside Christine on the edge of the bed, "where did you go? What happened to…you?"

"Meg, I can't explain! You wouldn't understand. Please, don't ask me…"

Meg took both of her hands and shook her head.

"Christine, I know the truth about your Angel."

"I went to see my father, Meg. Today is the anniversary of his death, you know. But _he_ followed me. Then Raoul came…they fought. I thought they would both die…but…"

The tears had begun to flow and, as Meg gave her a small cotton handkerchief, she was afraid of her own next question.

"Christine…did Raoul kill him?"

Christine shook her head, but there was a long pause before she spoke again.

"I couldn't let him hurt my teacher," she said at last.

Meg choked back a sigh of relief. He was still alive, then…

"After, when it was over," Christine went on in the lowest of whispers, "Raoul took me to a little church near the cemetery. The priest's housekeeper tended to his wounded arm. I wouldn't have known what to do. And, Meg…you must not say a word…not even to your mother…"

Meg squeezed the other young woman's hand and nodded for her to continue.

"Raoul and I are married now."


	29. Only His Footprints Lingered

Chapter Twenty-nine - Only His Footprints Lingered

Meg leapt to her feet, eyes wide and one hand pressed to her mouth.

How many times had they whispered together as little girls, eagerly planning every detail of their weddings…they were to have been each other's bridesmaid.

That didn't matter now.

Christine had risen, too, and caught her by her shoulders.

"Meg…_no one_ must know," she said with surprising force.

Meg couldn't answer her. She raised one finger to her own lips to assure Christine of her silence.

Christine said no more and they heard Madame Giry's brisk, light step on the stairs.

Leaving Christine with her mother, Meg went downstairs to the empty practice room.

For an hour, she put herself through her exercises as if her mother were there drilling her, forcing herself to forget Christine's secret for a little while.

But, when night came, she found she could not forgot it.

Christine was not in the dormitory, she was sharing Madame Giry's room for now.

_Why doesn't she just leave? They are married now…don't stay and torture him like this…give him the chance to forget you…_

She could not sleep, for each time she closed her eyes, she saw herself with Erik in that little alley by the courtyard, saw the rage and pain on his face as she whispered the news to him…

_She doesn't love you, Erik…_

Restless, she knelt up on the bed to look out the window, to look out across the roof.

She saw a man walking alone. His black cape was blowing in the wind, his white mask shone in the moonlight.

He sat down on the parapet, looked out over the dark of Paris.

_He deserves to know…_

Meg scrambled out of her bed and crept out of the room as quickly as she could without disturbing the other girls.

Barefoot and dressed only in her flannel nightdress, she ran along the hall and out on to the leads.

He was already gone. Only his footprints lingered in the thin dusting of snow on the theatre's roof.

His warning had been too clear. That her next visit to his underground sanctuary would be her last.

She did not dare follow him…not this time.


	30. They Will Try To Kill Him

Chapter Thirty - They Will Try To Kill Him

Chapter Thirty - They Will Try To Kill Him

The next morning, Meg found herself in the small crowd gathered around the Vicomte de Chagny behind the stage. She saw Christine, half hidden at the edge of the group.

_It's as if she's afraid to be seen with Raoul, as if someone will guess the truth. They're behaving like cowards, both of him…afraid to face him, afraid to run._

She clenched her fist in the gauzy folds of her skirt and turned her attention to the Vicomte.

"We will play his game, perform his work," he was saying, "but, remember, we hold the ace. For if Mademoiselle Daae sings, he will be certain to attend."

The managers joined in the plan eagerly.

"We'll make certain the police are there and armed…"

Meg leaned back against the iron support of the stairs, her nails digging deep into her palms.

_Mon Dieu…they mean to trap him…_

Meg saw her mother was ready to speak, to interrupt. A stern look from Monsieur Andre silenced her.

Madame Giry met her daughter's eyes. There was nothing they could say that would turn the tide now.

Christine turned away from the group, hurried down the passageways leading toward the quiet of the chapel.

The Vicomte seemed to act as if he had not seen her leave, but when the group had split up, Meg saw him follow after her.

Carlotta stormed past Meg. Madeleine juggled the prima donna's poodles in her plump arms and one of them snapped at Meg as the plump maid scurried after her mistress.

The diva was certainly among the most delighted at this plot to ensnare the source of her humiliation, but that did nothing to blunt her rage at being given so small a role in his opera. The limelight was the limelight, no matter who the composer might be.

Meg stumbled up the winding iron stairs. The dormitory was crowded with chattering girls, so she sought the silence of her mother's apartment.

She did not even bother to close the door behind her. She merely sank down on the old divan and buried her face in her hands.

She looked up when she heard the door close softly. Her mother came and sat down beside her.

"Maman, they will try to kill him, won't they?"

Madame Giry brushed aside a lock of her daughter's hair and nodded.

"I'm afraid so, ma petite."

She sighed and looked at the photograph on the armoire, a picture that had been made the same year she'd found him in that filthy fair.

"Perhaps it would be better for him that way. He would rather die than find himself in a cage again."

_A cage…_

It was a such a small word said in a quiet voice, but it took the breath from Meg as if she had been struck by a heavy hand.

_A cage…ah, poor Erik…_

She tried to stand…she would risk his anger, she would warn him.

Her mother held her back.

"No, Meg…there is nothing we can do now. We must play this game, too. If he will survive this, it is up to him."


	31. It Will Be A Disaster

Quick note...Don Juan's "aria" is taken from a song called "Endless Appetite," the English demo of Tanz de Vampire's "Unstillbare Gier."

* * *

Chapter Thirty-one - It Will Be A Disaster

Tension and chaos marked the rehearsals from the first hour.

The musicians complained constantly to Monsieur Reyer about the harsh, unfamiliar melodies. The harried maestro would respond only with a shrug.

Among themselves, the members of the corps de ballet puzzled over the slow and twisted movements of their dances.

Carlotta, cast as a tawdry madam, continued to fume over the size of her part. Even Meg's Harlot was a better role.

Christine was unnaturally quite as she went over her part of the beautiful gypsy girl.

Only Ubaldo Piangi seemed pleased with his part. The arias were difficult, but it was by far one of the best roles he'd had in all of his years at the Opera Populaire. He was aware of the fact that his appeal as a romantic lead had faded, slowly giving way to more comedic roles.

One afternoon, as Meg and Christine practiced a duet, one of theatre's many cats - a small, graceful black creature - suddenly leapt from a windowsill onto an unused piano.

Reyer's copy of the score went fluttering to the ground.

"Ah," snapped Carlotta, randomly striking at Piangi's knuckles with her closed fan, "you see! A sign! This opera…it will be a disaster."

She glared as Christine as if the whole thing were solely the ingénue's fault.

Christine turned and ran from the room, almost tripping on her full black skirt.

Meg, remembering that Christine was not to be left alone for a moment, started to follow her. Then she stopped.

_Let the Vicomte look after her now…_

She bent down and picked up scattered pages of the Phantom's opera . Sitting down at the piano, she began to put them back in order for Reyer.

It was one of Don Juan's arias, sung during the prison scene.

_I long to be a flame and reduced to ashes,_

_But I have never burned. _

_I long to fly in total freedom,_

_But these chains keep dragging me down._

_I long to be an angel or the devil himself, _

_But I am nothing but a creature longing for the things I can't have._

_And the split goes through the very heart of me._

_It's a wound that never mends._

_Our desires are elusive_

_And the hunger never ends._

She bit her lip, holding back tears that would smear the thick black ink.

_If only they knew the man who had written this, if only they knew the man they meant to destroy…would they show him mercy then?_

Even as she closed the leather cover over the pages, she knew the answer was no.


	32. And Then There Was Fear

Chapter Thirty-two - And Then There Was Fear

One of the dressers helped Meg fasten the dark crimson bodice of her whore's dress over the white lace chemise.

There were so many costume changes, Meg wondered how she would survive until the entr'acte without collapsing.

And then there was the fear…fear for him.

Checking the laces of her black shoes on last time and making sure the rose was securely pinned in her upswept hair, she hurried to take her place in the black and scarlet bedchamber at the rear of the stage with Piangi.

The stout Italian gave her a wink as he adjusted his black mask and struggled to keep his cape from sliding off the shoulder of his Spanish jacket.

Over the music…his music…she could hear the confused muttering of the audience.

Through a narrow gap in the striped curtains, she could see the mock flames at the center of the stage, beyond it, she could see Carlotta surrounded by the swaying dancers.

_Here the sacrificial lamb utters one despairing bleat…Don Juan triumphs once again!_

At those words, Meg threw back the curtain and twirled out onto the stage.

Gendarmes…so many of them.

As she paused to catch a little sack of coins that Piangi threw her as he too emerged from the bedchamber, she saw the Vicomte sitting in Box Five, an armed policeman beside him.

They were in the pit, too, and in the wings. Their rifles were held at the ready.

Brandishing the Harlot's pay, Meg whirled again and gave her head a saucy toss before exiting the stage.

The dresser handed her a loose white shirt and she began to change into a replica of Don Juan's costume for the scene where the Harlot disguises herself as a man to help Aminta free her lover from a Castellan prison.

As she tied the black cummerbund around her waist, she looked up into the flies.

_Are you there, Erik? Please…stay away…don't risk your life for her._

She heard Christine's voice, so clear and pure, as she made her entrance as Don Juan's next conquest.

Meg hurried along the back of the stage to join her mother, almost colliding with two more gendarmes.

She heard his voice…Erik's voice close by.

_You have come here, in pursuit of your deepest urge…in pursuit of that wish which til now has been silent, silent._

Those were Don Juan's words…Piangi's lines to sing… but it was Erik's voice.

Meg almost stumbled over the brace of a backdrop as she realized he was there on the stage…

She had all she could do not to scream to him…

_Erik…no!_


	33. To The Exquisite Power

Chapter Thirty-three - To The Exquisite Power

Meg reached her mother's side and looked out onto the stage.

It was not Piangi who strode across the stage, giving his cloak a sharp twirl as he approached Christine.

It was Erik, his eyes fixed on Christine as she knelt beside her basket of red roses.

As she listened, as she felt his voice once again, Meg suddenly began to understand what Christine must have felt that night after Gala. Her soul and body wanted to respond to him, to the exquisite power of his singing.

_His voice is too beautiful…it's almost a drug…_

The dancers in black hurried past her onto the stage.

_**Past the point of no return, no backward glances…past all thought of if or when…what unspoken secrets will we learn beyond the point of no return?**_

Meg sensed the vague confusion of the audience. They knew _someone_ had taken Piangi's place, but they seemed to think it was some new turn of the plot.

But her mother knew…and Christine knew.

As Meg watched, the soprano looked up and gave the faintest of nods to Raoul. A moment later, an armed officer appeared in the manager's box.

Meg saw the rifles brought to bear on the Phantom as the dancers slowly writhed and pivoted to the music.

Christine was climbing the wooden stairs to the walkway now.

Meg could not tell if she was only the bait in this terrible trap or if she were more than a pawn, that she betrayed him willingly.

The gendarmes could not shoot him if his body was blocked by Christine's…or by her own. Almost involuntarily, Meg tried to run onto the stage, towards those twisting stairs.

A hand on her arm held her back.

Not her mother's, but that of a policeman.

"Careful, girl," he said, "we don't want you to get hurt, too."

"The bastard's using Mam'zelle Daae as a shield," she heard one of the gendarmes say in a low voice, "there's no way in hell I can get a clear shot at him now!"

Meg looking up at Erik, Meg knew that was not true, that he would not shield his body with Christine's. He seemed unaware of them all now, the gendarmes, the audience, his rival…they had ceased to exist.

He seemed aware of only one thing…Christine was there in his embrace.

The music had ceased…the musicians in the pit has sensed that something was wrong, that something had changed…

He held Christine close, his hands so gentle on her throat before he turned her to face him.

**Say you'll share with me…one love, one lifetime…anywhere you go, let me go, too…**

_Christine, don't do this…don't make him beg like that…not for the world to see, not like that._

Christine reached up and caressed his face. From where she stood, she saw surprise in his eyes at her sudden tenderness.

Christine's hand trailed slowly along his cheek. Her delicate fingers curled around edge of the black suede domino.

And then Erik's face was bare, the mask and wig torn away, his disfigurement exposed to them all.


	34. The Edge of The Fire

Chapter Thirty-four - The Edge of The Fire

The first screams moved slowly through the audience.

His mask and dark wig were gone, his ravaged face was revealed to them. But he seemed oblivious to them.

His eyes remained on Christine, the stunned pain in them as exposed as his marred features.

Meg heard herself scream…not in horror at seeing his face again, but in shock at the cruelty of Christine's action.

The disbelief faded from his eyes, but the pain did not even as they darkened with anger.

He drew a knife from the jacket of his Don Juan costume. For a second, it reflected the lurid red draperies of the set, making it look as if it had already been bloodied.

_No…no! He won't…he can't…not even after what she has done…._

But, as she saw the blade flash in the glow of the stage lights, Meg remember Buquet's twitching corpse hurtling down onto that same stage.

The gendarmes in the theatre surged forward from their stations, seeking a clear aim at him.

Erik lunged forward, slicing through one of the thick ropes that formed part of the Don Juan set. Severed, it snapped and whipped like a snake as he seized Christine.

There was a strange rattling sound above the audience…

Then Erik and Christine were gone, plunging, down through a trapdoor in the walkway, down into that ring of false flames in the center of the stage.

Meg shook off the gendarme's hand and ran forward to the edge of the fire, saw the floor within the circle had opened into an abyss that seemed to go straight into the lowest depths of the Opera Populaire.

From high above them, beyond the painted dome of the auditorium there was an ominous sound, the roar of a heavy chain snapping through the timbers of the ceiling at the great chandelier began to plummet.

Meg saw it only for an instant, a bright and massive storm of shimmering crystals and light careening down towards the stage.

She leapt backward, falling once before scrambling to her mother's side.

The sickening crash of the chandelier against the stage, the sudden roar of flames as the gas ignited and the sets burst into flame drowned out the terrified cries of the audience.

In the crowded passage behind the stage, they collided with the Vicomte de Chagny.

"Where did he take her," demanded, "where did they go?"

Madame Giry hesitated for a second, glancing once at her daughter.

"Tell me, please," he said, grabbing the ballet mistress by the arm, "where did that monster take my bride?"

Madame Giry shook off the Vicomte's arm.

"Very well, I will take you to him. But, remember Buquet and keep your hand at the level of your eyes."

"I'll go with you," Meg called to them as her mother hurried the Vicomte towards the stairs to the dressing rooms.

Madame Giry looked back at her daughter for a moment.

"No, ma petite!"

And she raised her finger to her lips in a gesture that Raoul de Chagny could not see.

_At least she will not betray Erik._


	35. Cold And Familiar Features

Chapter Thirty-five - Cold and Familiar Features

"My God, Andre! We are ruined!"

Meg turned to see Andre and Firmin in the midst of a crowd of stagehands, chorus members, gendarmes, and men from the audience.

_They won't show him mercy now…not now._

She flung out her arms as wide as she could, as if that futile gesture could stop them.

As if her small figure could stand as a barricade between this enraged mob and the man she loved.

"Move aside, Mademoiselle," Monsieur Andre shouted at her.

She saw there was a revolver in his hands, wondered numbly if he'd always carried it.

"No," she screamed, though she knew they would never listen, never halt.

So she turned. Desperate to stay ahead of them, she turned and ran as if his life depended on it.

She almost flung herself through the door to the dressing room and saw the mirror was closed.

No…it was open by only a few inches. She slid it back far enough to squeeze through and slammed it shut behind her.

She wondered if there was something, some lever or latch to lock it. There was no time to look for it and she knew the mob would only force its way through.

She dash down through the tunnels, her boots sliding on the damp stairs, her steps echoing in the darkness.

There was no sign of her mother or of the Vicomte. Perhaps they had gone by a different path to his lair.

And what of him? How could she even be certain he'd gone back there. What if he had taken Christine somewhere else…

As she scrambled along the ledge, she heard a crash and knew the mob had broken through the mirror.

Bits of flaming debris rained down through openings in the ceiling, hissing as they fell into the little canal.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the flicker of torches on the water and she heard the shouts of the mob too close behind her.

The portcullis was open and Meg leaped down into the water.

As she waded towards the steps, something caught her eyes beyond one of the cave-like arches. 

She saw the small black and silver boat moving away. Christine stood in it, dressed in a lavish wedding gown. A man was with her…carefully poling the boat further into the distance.

It was Raoul de Chagny.

Meg climbed the steps, saw a delicate white veil lying on the floor…so rumpled and forlorn.

Glass crackled beneath her soles as she passed a pair of shattered mirrors. The third was still covered by its velvet drape.

Looking back, she saw the gendarmes, holding their rifles at the ready, and the amazed faces of the stagehands and patrons.

She hurried into the bedchamber. It, too was empty.

On a low table, there stood an elaborate music box. A monkey in rich, foreign robes with tiny cymbals in its hands.

His white mask lay beside the music box.

Meg picked it up, trying to take comfort in its cold and familiar features.

"Where are you, Erik," she whispered.

Seconds later, there was a strange cracking thunder as the stone roof of the lair buckled.


	36. Deeper Into The Shadows

Chapter Thirty-Six - Deeper Into The Shadows

A wall of broken stone and burning wreckage cascaded down into the lake. A smouldering barricade suddenly lay between Meg and the mob, between her and the portcullis.

Meg screamed and, letting the mask fall, instinctively backed against the wall.

_Am I trapped here?   
_  
There was no way around the barrier. It would be too dangerous to try to clamber over or around it. One the other side she heard shouts and cries. Someone had been injured and someone was calling out to her.

"Is that girl all right…was she crushed…I don't hear her!"

_Will I die here…and where is Erik…is he still here, trapped with me…or is he dead…did Raoul kill him? _

No, she knew there were other exits. He had not taken her by way of the lake…one path had lead to the chapel, one to the stable yard. Ah, but where…where?

The force of the collapse had knocked over many of the candelabra and now the rugs and velvet drapery began to blaze.

She saw the pictures of Christine catch fire, consuming so quickly.

_There must be a way out…but what of Erik… _

Suddenly, she felt herself falling…no, not falling, but dragged into darkness. 

A strong arm was around her waist, pulling her through the frame of a shattered mirror into a narrow tunnel.

He was so near her now, his body nudged against hers.

"Say nothing," he whispered, "and do not let go of my hand."

He'd leaned close to her as he spoke, the left side of his face brushing her cheek. She could feel the sting and dampness of tears on his skin.

His fingers closed over hers and she followed him deeper into the shadows.

They walked for a long time. She could not tell if the path led deeper underground or if they were slowly ascending.

There was no light at all and she clung to his hand, knowing he was her only reality.

After a while, the passage seemed to widen, the clammy walls no longer scraped against her shoulders at each bend.

"Remain still," he said letting go of her hand. She did as he told her, afraid of losing him in this blind labyrinth.

There was a hiss and a torch illuminated his ravaged profile as he opened a small grate in the wall.

Fearing that the light might flicker out, Meg stayed near him as he drew a iron case from the recess.

From it, he took out a mask and a leather pouch. He handed them to her without a word, then pulled a folded cloak from the box.

He put out the torch and she felt him move towards her, throwing the cape over her shoulders.

"Come," he said, as he took her hand again, "we still have far to go." 

-------------------------------------------------


	37. Another Descent

Chapter Thirty-seven - Another Descent

The tunnel ended most abruptly. A small metal screen over their heads allowed dull ,broken light into the passage.

There was a door, a low ancient door of rotting wood and heavy hinges.

He pushed it open and, to Meg's surprised, placed his hand firmly over her mouth before drawing her through it.

And she found herself in the midst of death.

They were in a crypt, a chamber of crumbling stone. From every wall, skulls…hundred of skulls neatly stacked…grinned at them. In each corner, mounds of bones were heaped from floor to ceiling.

Propped up against one wall was an open casket. In it rested a withered body in the moldering habit of a nun. The rosary in her gaunt, leathery hands was thick with corrosion.

He held her until he felt her relaxed, felt her adjust to the shock of the charnel house.

"I could not risk your screams," he whispered, releasing her.

From above, they heard the voices of women chanting.

_Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariae. Et concepit de Spiritu Sancto…Ecce ancilla Domini. Fiat mihi secundum verbum tuum._

Even here, he was not immune to music. He stood listening for a moment, his eyes closed.

The singing grew fainter.

_Et Verbum caro factum est. Et habitavit in nobis._

Still holding the mask and the leather bag, she kept her eyes fixed on him, not daring to look at the skulls that stared at her from every direction.

There were a pair of iron handles jutting up from floor. He bent and tugged at them, the warped boards groaning a little as the trapdoor eased open.

More stairs, another descent into the blackness…

She picked her way down steps that had been roughly hacked out of the stone centuries earlier. Behind her, she heard the soft thud of door closing behind them.

She wondered how long it how been, how many hours had passed since the curtain had risen on _Don Juan Triumphant_.

She could not hold back the poison of exhaustion any longer.

Clinging to the mask and bag as if they could somehow keep her conscious, she collapsed at the bottom of the steps.

She felt the cold, damp ground of the tunnel against her face. If only she could stay here…if only he would let her rest.

Then she felt him bending over her, slipping one arm beneath her shoulders and one behind her aching knees as he lifted her against him.


	38. The Salt of Dried Tears

Chapter Thirty-eight - The Salt of Dried Tears

Meg closed her eyes and let her head rest against him, listening to the sound of his heart beating a counterpoint to his echoing footsteps.

Then there was another sound, of water lapping against stone.

_Have we gone back there?_

But when he gently slid her onto her feet, she saw they were beneath a low arched opening beyond which she saw the pale gray of the sky.

_Only dawn then? It seemed so much longer…_

They were standing on a small stone landing beneath one of the old bridges crossing the Seine.

Looking at the buildings on the opposite bank, Meg tried in vain to determine where they were. She saw nothing familiar, she knew too little of the city beyond the Place de l'Opera.

Erik leaned back against the wall. Almost the moment he had stepped out of the shadows of the tunnel, he'd raised his hand to cover the right side of his face.

She remembered the mask she carried for him, wondering if she should offer it to him.

_Not unless he asks…and even then…_

She could see he was exhausted. He sat down on the landing, his back against the wall, his eyes closed.

Setting the leather case and mask down, Meg sat, too.

There was a hint of smoke in the cool air. She knew it came from the Opera Populaire.

She closed her eyes, too, wondering what had become of her mother. She was certain her mother had made it safely from the burning theatre. Where was she now? Was she searching for her only child?

"Meg, give me that mask."

His eyes were still closed. One palm was still pressed to his face, the other was extended for the mask.

She picked up the mask, ready to hand it to him. Then she stopped. It would be so easy to toss that disguise in the river, let it sink into the water.

She slipped it into the leather satchel instead.

"Give me the mask," he repeated.

"No!"

He opened his eyes, startled by her abrupt defiance.

She slid towards him, clasped his wrist and pulled his hand away from his face.

She leaned close to him, resting one hand on his knee.

When she moved to kiss his lips, he pressed back against the wall.

But she did not let go of his hand. Instead, she pressed her lips to his face.

She tasted the salt of the dried tears there on the twisted cheek…tears he had shed for Christine, she knew.


	39. Still Room Enough For Two

Chapter Thirty-nine - Still Room Enough For Two

She heard him catch his breath sharply as her lips travel from his temple to his chin, then brushed the corner of his mouth.

He pushed her away gently, the cape half slipping off her shoulders.

When he stood, he moved his hand as if to cover his face again. But he did not, nor did he ask her again for the mask.

He walked to the edge of the landing, the wind ruffling his shirt.

"Your mother," he said in a low voice, "I'm certain she is…that she is all right. It shouldn't be difficult for you to find her."

Meg eased forward onto her knees and looked up at him.

His clothes…like hers…were rumpled and smudged with dirt. His hair, free from the dark wig, was wild…a light brown touched with early gray.

_He destroyed his world…for her…where will he go?_

"Leave the mask and take that bag with you. The money from the managers…much of it is there."

For the second time, she defied him. She rose and, coming beside him, took his arm.

"Let go with you."

He turned on her so suddenly, shrugging off her arm and catching her shoulders.

But she gave him no chance to object, to refuse her. Her blue eyes met his without wavering.

"I am going with you, Erik."

The room was small, high in the garret of a cheap boarding house. The thick old wallpaper was faded that its pattern was indiscernible.

There was a single small window above the head of the bed. A dull gray mirror hung opposite it.

A threadbare blanket was spread across the bed. A patch of morning sunlight shone on it.

The stocky patroness had kept her eyes averted from Erik's face and scowled at Meg as she took payment for the room.

She made it clear that they were hardly welcome and that nothing else was included or to be expected for the price.

"At least it's clean," Meg muttered wearily as she laid Erik's cloak over the broken chair next to the bed.

As narrow as the bed was, there was still enough room for two and they fell asleep, her head nestled against his neck.


	40. Erik, Erik, Erik

Chapter Forty - Erik, Erik, Erik

The flare of the late afternoon sun on that little cracked mirror awakened Meg.

Opening her eyes, she saw the room reflected in the dusty glass.

She lay on her back, Erik on his side. The unmarred side of his face was hidden in the pillow they shared, his arm lay across her waist.

It was so familiar and comforting and right.

The window above them, was also reflected in the mirror. She could see the gray smoke that still rose from the charred ruins of the once magnificent Opera Populaire.

Her home…she had spent her life there. That was all she knew…the plain dormitories and lavish stage.

It was gone, destroyed by the man who held her now.

Meg shifted onto her side, closer to him. Though his eyes remained closed, she sensed that he was not asleep.

She touched his face lightly, gliding her palm over the disfigurement.

She wondered how and why his face was so distorted.

_He offered his very soul to Christine, I know. But she couldn't see beyond this._

"Erik, please…look at me"

He opened his eyes at the sound of his name, reached up and covered her hand with his own.

She thought for a moment that he seemed surprised to find her beside him and she was afraid he would push her away again.

When he did not, she kissed him and she felt his hold on her hand tightening as her tongue gently teased his.

She was certain that, even if he could not love her, he would not refuse her now.

She drew her hand out from under his and ran it down along his neck, feeling his pulse against her skin.

His shirt had come untucked from the black cummerbund and was open. She slid her hand over his chest, her fingers admiring the warmth of his body.

Her caresses were followed by the gentlest of kisses.

When he made no move to touch her, she took his trembling hand and laid it against her heart. She hoped he felt how franticly it was hammering.

She prayed that he would feel her hunger, that he would understand that she wanted only him.

He must have sensed it, he must have known because he pushed her onto her back.

His whole body seemed to completely envelope hers and his lips burned against her skin.

"Erik, Erik, Erik," she whispered, tangling her fingers in his hair.

The sunlight glowed on his shoulders as she tugged away the black cummerbund from his waist, then twisted out of her own clothing.

She closed her eyes sinking beneath the weight of him, savoring the feel of his bare skin against hers.

She cried out once, a faint and sharp whimper as her body accommodated him.

It seemed as if there was nothing else in the world…nothing but sound of that shabby bed creaking as he moved within her, her own moans of pleasure as she arched against him eagerly, his scarred back beneath her hands.

_Erik…I love you._

And it didn't matter that the name he called out in passion was not hers.


	41. A Shadow of Uncertainty

Chapter Forty-one - A Shadow of Uncertainty

As night fell, they made love again in that unlit room.

It was different in the darkness…slower, but no less urgent.

After, she held him in her arms as he slept.

One of his hands was cupped around her shoulder and she reached up to caress it, drawing one fingers softly across his knuckles.

She thought briefly of Christine and Raoul. Where were they tonight? Was Christine asleep, too? Was she wrapped her husband's arms, already forgetting her Angel?

She wondered, too, about her mother.

_Poor Maman…she probably thinks I died there in the fire. _

She could feel the roughness of his face against her neck and the softness of his hair on her cheek.

_I could leave him now. He wanted me to go. I could find Maman…_

She blinked hard, forcing herself not to cry.

_No matter what happens between us, he will never learn to love me. _

It would be so easy for her to leave him. Easy, but impossible.

Blindy, she touched his face, tracing the contour of his lips.

_Are you dreaming of her?_

"Erik," she murmured, not knowing if he heard her, "I won't leave you. I promise you."

When the dawn came, he was no longer lying beside her. But his cloak lay over her in place of the ragged blanket.

He was dressed, seated on the edge of the bed.

When he heard her move, he turned and brushed a heavy lock of hair from her face.

There was a shadow of uncertainty in his eyes as he leaned over to kiss her forehead.

The room was chilly and she wrapped the cape around herself as she sat up.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and moved to lean against his arm.

"We should leave soon, Meg. Paris is not safe for me."

_We_ _should leave…_

She nodded, smiling because she knew he'd heard her whispered vow.


	42. I Knew This Place Well

Epilogue One - I Knew This Place Well

A small burgundy automobile stopped in front of the ruined Opera Populaire.

The chauffeur open the door and a petite woman in deep mourning stepped from the elegant vehicle. She paused for a moment, glancing at the crest on another automobile that waited nearby.

A heavy-set man in a gray checked suit came down the cracked steps to meet her.

"Madame, I am Jean Herbert," he said, tipping his hat, "and you are the Baroness de Castelot-Barbezac?"

"I am," she said, nodding and offering the man her gloved hand. In her other hand, she held an object wrapped in black silk.

Beneath her heavy lace veil, Monsieur Herbert could see that her hair was gold turned to ivory. Fine lines traced the skin around her eyes. However, the Baroness was still an attractive woman and Monsieur Herbert glanced at her with polite admiration as he held open the door for her.

"You see, Madame, we are holding an auction here today. There are things to be sold before the theatre is torn down."

"Yes, I saw the notice in the paper when I arrived in Paris yesterday. However, I have not come here for the sale."

She paused, looking at the small group assembled for the auction. At one end of the stage, she saw a frail man in a wheeled chair, attended by a nun. On the other side, she saw an elderly woman dressed…as she was…in black.

She turned her attention back to Hebert.

"Are you sure, Madame, you will not permit me to escort you through the theatre? This place is a crumbling maze. It may not be safe."

She smiled at the man who now owned and would soon destroy the old Opera House.

"That will not be necessary. I knew this place well. And I will not be long at all."

Meg held up the hem of her black skirt to keep it from snagging on the splintered wood of floor.

She pushed open the door of Box Five, hearing it groan before it gave way.

She had never been in Box Five before. As a girl, it had been a haunted place shunned by even the boldest tarts of the ballet. It had belonged to the Opera Ghost until a certain young Vicomte had the audacity to use it.

She lifted her veil and looked down onto the stage.

A pigeon fluttered up through a shaft of autumn sunlight that shone through the damaged roof as the auctioneer took bids on a music box.

It was a monkey…a whimsical little creature with a turban and cymbals.

As she watched, the woman in black raised her hand to signal her bid. A second later, the invalid nodded to indicate his interest in the same lot.

Beneath a massive tarpaulin, she discerned the outline of the great chandelier.

Turning her back on the auction, she opened the silk pouch and drew out a white mask.

A single tear shimmered on her cheek as she pressed a farewell kiss on the cool white kid features.

She laid it on the ledge of the box.

"Goodbye, Erik."

* * *

_Author's Note: There will be a second epilogue posted soon._


	43. And It Had Been Enough

Epilogue Two - And It Had Been Enough

Not bothering to lower her veil again, Meg stood in the doorway of the Opera Populaire.

The other woman was there, too, watching as the nun and a chauffeur assisted the Vicomte de Chagny into his automobile.

As the vehicle began to move, he caught sight of the two ladies in black. His eyes moved from one to the other, then he slowly nodded in recognition of them both.

When he was gone, Meg walked down the steps to the older lady and held out her hand to her.

"Maman?"

Madame Giry turned to face her daughter, the Baroness, and took her hand.

"Ma petite. I knew it was you. I saw in _his _box and was certain."

Meg's own driver held open the door of her automobile.

"Will you ride with me, Maman? Are you going somewhere? Alfred will not mind going out of our way."

"I would be glad to ride with you. It has been so long, mon enfant."

The two women sat beside each other and, as Alfred shut the heavy door, Madame Giry noticed the bouquet of red roses that lay on the floor.

"Where have you been all this time, ma petit?"

"So many places. Rome, first. Then Krakow. And Vienna. Even Paris for a time."

She bent to pick up one of the roses before continuing.

"I was always with Erik."

She drew off her glove and held out her hand.

Her mother touched the heavy gold wedding band her daughter wore.

"But I heard Monsieur Herbert address you as the Baroness…"

"The Baroness de Castelot-Barbezac, yes. Such distinctions can be had for a price."

She laughed and went on.

"Do you remember his promise that he would make me an empress? He said he hoped this would be enough to please you. He never forgot the kindness you once showed him."

"Is Erik in Paris, then?"

Meg looked away from her mother, her fingers tightening around the stem of the rose as she stated out the window.

"No. Maman, Erik is dead. Six months now…he died peacefully. In my arms, in his sleep."

From her small purse, she drew a faded black ribbon. From it dangled a heavy diamond ring.

"He asked me to return this to Christine."

Meg's voice broke a little as she spoke.

They had no secrets in all those years and no regrets. She knew that he had never ceased to love Christine. But she knew, too, that they had at least found a sort of peace together.

_And it had been enough._

"We named our first daughter for you, Maman," she said, turning to her mother and smiling again, "Helene is so like her father in every way, but one."

And as she spoke, her hand brushed the right side of her face.

The automobile was passing through the cemetery gates now and Meg tied the ribbon and the ring around the stem of the rose.

"Maman, can you ever forgive me for leaving you like that?"

Madame Giry laid her hand on her daughter's arm.

"There is nothing to forgive, my little Meg. You see, I loved him, too. Only I lacked your courage."

THE END


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